


Sharing Blood

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blood Drinking, M/M, PWP, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sex, Vampire Sherlock, vampire kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft (the vampire) comes home early to surprise his lover Lestrade, but he's got guests over. He drags Lestrade away, drinks his blood and shags him senseless. In the process, Sherlock is driven mad by the smell and takes John away to do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you don't mind vampires, or explicit descriptions of blood drinking!

Lestrade smiled as easily as he could and handed beers around to the men sitting in his living room. They'd just finished up a long hard case and usually this was when he would take his time, de-stressing with a bottle of wine and a movie with his lover before they worked their way up to the bedroom. Unfortunately Mycroft had been gone for almost two weeks and wouldn't be back for another four days. And with Donna at her mother's the flat was too quiet for him to properly relax after such a taxing case. So he had invited some of his friends from the Yard, along with Sherlock and John, for a few drinks.  
  
Still, he was tense. Mycroft had been away too long and Lestrade missed him. He found himself constantly checking the time, waiting for Mycroft to call like he did most nights to help settle both their nerves. It wasn't as much of a release as the reassuring surge of pleasure that came with the vampire's fangs sinking into his neck, a feeling he was missing almost as much as the man himself, but just hearing his mate was usually enough to get Lestarde through the night. Even if most of those nights were spent pawing uselessly at themselves as they listed all the filthy things they would do to one another if they were right there.  
  
But it was almost half an hour past their usual time and Mycroft still hadn't called. It was making Lestrade nervous and turning his smile brittle as he sat down on the sofa next to John.

 

“You seem tense,” John noted the stiff posture the other man held, the way he stared at his bottle without taking a drink, watching rivulets of water trickle down the brown glass.

 

“He’s strung out,” Sherlock said mildly, re-crossing his legs and wondering for the thousandth time that night exactly what he was doing there. He didn’t have a beer because frankly he hated the taste – as well as the added fact that he shared Mycroft’s vampire bloodline and most human substances gave him horrible migraines or fits of vomiting.

 

“Strung out?” Anderson repeated in that nasally voice of his (that bothered everyone but nobody was impolite enough to say a thing about it – and Sherlock was far too tamed by John.)

 

"I'm just a little lonely." Lestrade countered, glaring at Sherlock. He took a drink of his beer but it was flat and bitter and with a disappointed sigh he set it aside. Really it was both. Mycroft had had to leave before their usual feeding time at the start of the month and Lestrade was desperate for it. It was a little like being a junkie who badly needed a fix but he couldn't come out and say that.  "With Mycroft gone and Donna away getting me in trouble I've had no one but you lot to talk to for days. You're all driving me mad." he continued, forcing a laugh and hoping no one would argue with him.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and got a sharp nudge from John, but nobody seemed to notice.

 

Two weeks overdue to feed from his mate, Mycroft was more than a bit irate when he walked up the front steps of Greg’s flat and he could already smell not only the presence of several humans – but also his vampire brother and his own human mate. Mycroft’s stomach was twisting with hunger that burned down to his core. Sherlock often teased him for needing to feed once a month, and would brag that he could go six weeks, easy, sometimes seven if he’s having a good run of it.

 

Mycroft didn’t see the sense in putting aside feeding time. It was delectable for him – not only the heavenly taste of his mate’s blood, but also the sublime noises the human would make when bitten. And obviously Greg enjoyed himself, or he never would have let it happen in the first place. Their binding made it impossible for Mycroft to hunger for a drop of any single person’s blood besides Greg’s.

 

That wasn’t to say that he _couldn’t_ drink another person’s blood, but it would always taste as bitter and unappealing as the beer Greg was currently swirling around in his bottle. Mycroft had come home four days early to get a good surprise in for Greg, but now there were five other beings muddling up the perfect scent of his lover – four other heartbeats (Sherlock’s wasn’t beating – he hadn’t fed from John recently) jumbling up the perfect song Greg’s would sing for him.

 

He didn’t even waste time with greeting. He opened the door soundlessly and deposited his umbrella in the front stand, as well as hanging his overcoat on the hook. He contemplated taking his shoes off, but decided to leave them on. He never did like the vulnerable feeling that came with having his shoes off with other people in the house.

 

The conversation in the room halted instantly and every pair of eyes darted to the archway between the living room and the front hall. Lestrade was the only person sitting with his back to the doorway, but the sudden silence and stares didn’t escape him.

And then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he knew what everyone was looking at before a single person even parted their lips in greeting.

 

“Upstairs.” Mycroft’s voice was sharp and it was clear he would not tolerate a second’s hesitation. “Now.”

 

He walked through the center of the living room and out the other side, heading towards the staircase that led to the room he shared with his mate on nights he would stay over.

 

Lestrade stood so quickly it was like he had been electrocuted. He gave the others a shaky smile and mumbled something about "obviously in a bad mood, should see what he wants," before hurrying out of the room, controlling himself just enough to keep from running. He managed to grab the door and pull it shut, cutting off the living room and hopefully shutting out what he knew was inevitably going to happen as soon as they reached the bedroom.  
  
Not that he minded. Not in the least. In fact he was half hard just thinking about it. He found Mycroft on the stairs and gave him his first real smile in over a week.  
  
"I missed you." he managed to get out before his inhumanly strong lover grabbed him and pulled him close.

 

“Don’t speak,” Mycroft hissed, slamming him against the wall of the stair case hard enough that there was a moment of silence in the living room as the thud resounded. He fit himself directly between Greg’s thighs and proceeded to grind like they were already fucking. “I thought I’d surprise you by coming home early, and here you’ve got your house full of mouth-breathers and my own _brother_ , I thought maybe I could do something nice, and this is what you’ve done.”

 

His voice was sharp and his eyes were scalding as he stared down the detective inspector, who didn’t dare utter a syllable, as he was just barely managing to hold onto his senses as Mycroft rolled his hips forward against his own.

 

“I’m _hungry_ , Greg,” his voice was softer now, and he nosed the pulse point in the other man’s throat, feeling his own heart try to give a feeble beat in reply.

 

Lestrade tilted his head in silent permission. It was better this way, better than giving his answer vocally. This was Mycroft's body making the demands, not his mind, and it was better to answer in the same way. There would be time for words later. In that moment they needed action.

 

Mycroft hummed in appreciation, a non-verbal praise to Greg for being such a good pet, and continued to kiss and nose at his throat for a few more minutes. This moment, this calm, tense moment right before the bite was always so thrilling. He could already almost taste the sweet copper of Greg’s blood on his tongue, and he listened to the way his heart sped up in expectation of what was to come. This was the moment that needed to be strung out, so that the breaking of it was that much sweeter.

 

And then he opened his mouth, and slowly, slowly extended his fangs. Slow enough that Greg could hear the filthy, wet sounds of his gums shifting around the protrusions. Slow enough that his body ached for the taste of what was to come, and slow enough that Greg became so impatient he rolled his hips up in silent plea.

 

One more open-mouthed kiss to the human’s pulse point, and he pierced.

 

Lestrade instinctively gripped Mycroft's arms as the effects of his venom hit him. The momentary pain of having his neck penetrated was always washed away in well under three seconds by the heavenly toxin that swirled from Mycroft’s fangs. His vision exploded in a burst of white and he trembled beneath the waves of euphoria rippling through him. His entire body pulsed with pleasure and beneath it he could feel Mycroft's thirsty mouth taking from him, each suck setting off another cascade of pleasure. Every nerve in his body was alive and firing off messages, overloading his brain with stimuli. He was aware of his body in a way he never could be outside of this state. He could feel his toes curve and his eyes shift beneath their lids. He could feel his body rocking through an intense orgasm while never losing the hardness pressing against his jeans, adding a small note of satisfying pain to the cacophony of sensation.  
  
The first time they had done this, the first time Mycroft had fed from him, Lestrade had thought he would never experience anything as utterly sublime as those feelings but their binding had brought these moments to a new high and Lestrade was sure it was going to kill him someday. But he was alright with that.

 

Mycroft knew that his mate wasn’t even aware of the noises he was making. Loud and lewd and filthy, he called and gripped and rocked. He’d come already, Mycroft noted, but continued to grind forward anyway. He was making a few noises of his own, although they were muted in the wetness of the human’s bleeding throat. His arms were wrapped so tightly around Greg’s waist that he was nearly touching his own ribcage on either side, and he only pulled a little tighter when Greg began to rock against him again.

 

He listened to Greg’s spine pop in a few places as he was gripped tighter than he’d been in a very long time, cracking his back into place in ways that would normally cost large sums at a professional office. He listened to his heartbeat, counted. He knew when to stop, when his mate’s heart beat began to struggle even the slightest amount, that was time for him to cease his sucking and leave the rest of the human’s blood for his own body. After all, he still needed it.

 

Usually such an impeccable feeder, but now Mycroft dirtied himself, allowing rivulets to trail down the human’s neck so he could lap them up before puncturing again, close to his original bite. Greg seemed close already to a second orgasm, if the way his body was vibrating with need was any indication. With Greg’s blood filling his stomach and singing in his veins, Mycroft was hard as stone and pressed against the inspector’s thigh as he ground himself hard into his warm, jeans-clad leg.

 

"Please," Lestrade begged, not even aware he was speaking. He was too far gone to know what his brain was doing. He was aware only of his body and the need for more of this heaven. His brain was on autopilot, asking the questions he wasn't consciously thinking of, trying to give the body what it demanded.

 

Mycroft knew what his lover was begging for even if Greg did not know himself. He retracted his fangs and flipped the human over against the wall, watching his blood smear against the white paint. It wouldn’t be the first time they used their special concoction to get blood off the walls, but admittedly they’d never had to use it on the _staircase wall._

Mycroft was punishing with the pace that he ripped aside the human’s jeans, throwing his trousers and pants down to bunch at his boots and pushing up hard against him, sucking briefly at the four small puncture wounds in his throat as he fiddled with the front of his own trousers.

 

“More?” he asked breathily, and Greg simply nodded. Mycroft smirked and cupped his hand at the wound to gather just enough blood to use as lubricant. He penetrated the human’s backside at the same time he penetrated his shoulder with another hard bite.

 

Lestrade's mouth fell open and his eyes fluttered shut as another swell of ecstasy surged through him, this time emanating from two points. The two waves hit each other somewhere deep inside his body and he thought he might explode. He may have cried out, he isn't sure. It wouldn't surprise or bother him if he did. It feels too good to care and Mycroft was fucking him harder with his fingers so he must be pleased which is all that really matters.

 

He barely even noticed when fingers became cock, except that the burn was so much more exquisite. He was giving out low grunts every time Mycroft thrust into him, and he whined loudly when those teeth left his neck. But Mycroft heard the first flutters of his heartbeat and knew it was time to stop drinking, and focus on fucking his mate into the wall.

 

He listened to the heartbeats in the other room as he drove his hips forward. Every damn one of them accelerated, the perverts. He could smell Sherlock’s need from here, and knew it wouldn’t be long before – Ah, there, he’s dragging John out of the flat.

 

One hand on either of Greg’s shoulders, stapling him firmly in place, Mycroft placed his focus squarely in pounding himself shamelessly into his human mate.

 

Lestrade's senses were slowly coming back to him. He was conscious enough now to feel Mycroft burying himself in his body, again and again and again. Normally this kind of unrestrained pounding would have been painful but he was still too high on Mycroft's venom to feel anything but pleasure. He was screaming in ecstasy now and he was aware of it but he couldn't stop, it felt too good.

 

Mycroft held Greg about the waist maybe just a little too tight, and he knew it wouldn’t be long at all. One firm hold on his cock and his mate was exploding into orgasm again, and so he wasted no time in releasing his own orgasm a few moments later with a loud hiss and a bite to the human’s shoulder – fangs retracted so all he got was a nice, deep bite mark. It would probably bruise.

 

They stood for a while, using each other’s body weight to support themselves, as well as the wall. They breathed each other’s scent, and Mycroft kissed gently at the puncture wounds in his lover’s body until they began to heal over. A wonderful side effect of having such an old, powerful vampire for a lover.

 

He pulled out of his beloved, smiling as he whined, and helped keep him standing upright. “You’re a mess,” he murmured, looking down at his blood-soaked shirt and hips. He, too, was smeared with blood all the way down to his waist. “Let’s visit upstairs and clean up, hm?”

 

He half-carried his weakened and delirious mate up the stairs, stripping him of his clothing and putting them in the “to bleach” hamper. Carrying Greg bridal-style, he set his weary lover in the bathtub before running hot water over him. He smirked when the groggy inspector indulged in an unashamed moan when the warmth washed over him. Mycroft pulled off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Gathering a wash sponge in his hand, he began to gently lave it over the bloodied surface of Greg’s chest and shoulders, letting the coppery substance wash down the drain as his human slowly returned to himself and the venom worked its way out of his system.

 

"I love you so much." Lestrade slurred, eyes half closed in hazy contentment as the sponge slid over his overly sensitive skin. He smiled up at Mycroft and pushed himself up just enough to kiss his mate lightly on the lips before falling back into the tub.

 

They shared a few giggles as Lestrade slipped and slid in the tub after dropping his weight back onto the slicked surface. He trembled as Mycroft finished cleaning him, and proceeded to strip himself. He loved watching Mycroft undress. He was meticulous, un clasping every button and slipping himself from his clothes like they were water or silk. He folded his suit to the side and slipped into the tub behind his lover so the water could wash over them both.

 

“We can’t stay long,” he murmured, kissing behind Greg’s ear. “You’ve still got guests downstairs.”

 

"Shit." Lestrade muttered, less forcefully than he usually would have. He was too relaxed to content to be embarrassed yet even though he knew he should be. Those were people he worked with who had just seen him running after his lover and then disappear upstairs. After having very satisfying, and probably very loud, sex on the stairs.  
  
"Think they heard me?" he asked with a little laugh.

 

“Oh, they did,” Mycroft said with a nibble to the inspector’s ear. “If you’d like, I could face them for you. Shoo them away, so you don’t have to go back there.”

 

"I'll have to face them at the Yard sooner or later." Lestrade sighed. He took Mycroft's hand in his and raised it to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to his palm. "I might as well do it now. And stop that. I'm not going to be able to walk for at least a day after that and it'll be a week if you get us started again."

 

Mycroft smiled guiltily and sat them up to turn off the water. He toweled off his human lovingly and carted in a new pair of jeans and his favorite heather grey tee and brandished them towards his lover, all the while still totally naked himself.

 

“I’ll meet you down in a bit then,” he said as Greg started pulling on his clothes. “Good luck.”

 

Lestrade glared at him and pulled his shift over his head. "I hate you." he replied before taking the first few shaky steps towards the door. His legs were trembling slightly and he knew once the numbness that had settled over his body wore off they would give out entirely. All he could hope for was that they would last him down to the living room.  
  
The stairs were hard but he managed to make it down in one piece. He opened the door and leaned against the frame, looking down at the floor as a warm flush spread over his face.  
  
"I'm sorry about all that." he said sheepishly.

 

Nobody could look in his direction. In fact, nobody could look at anyone else. Eyes were scattered all over the room, and nobody made eye contact.

 

“Where’s Sherlock and John?” Lestrade asked, twisting his pinkie in his ear to get the water out.

 

“They left pretty immediately,” Anderson muttered, also unable to look in the direction of his boss.

 

"Right. Well if you lads want to go I won't hold it against you." he offered, realizing what must have happened. Sherlock had probably smelled his blood and, with John right there, had been unable to hold back the need for some himself. He just hoped they had managed to find somewhere a little more private before they got to it.

 

And Lestrade was exactly right. Sherlock has bristled the very second Mycroft punctured Lestrade’s neck. He lasted almost a minute before he had John by the wrist and was carting him bodily out of the flat. John couldn’t have argued even if he wanted to.

 

He was embarrassed by his own need, but seeing as his need was stronger than his shame, it won out. He barely registered John calling out behind him, and only realized after a few moments that the doctor was tugging away. It was then he noticed that he was holding a little too tight, and released his death-grip on John’s wrist.

 

“ _What_ is your problem?” John panted as the two of them stopped moving on the sidewalk.

 

“Mycroft is feeding,” Sherlock hissed, his eyes burning as he looked at John. “The smell was… tempting. I had to leave.”

 

"And decided to break my wrist in the process?" John snapped, rubbing gently at the already bruising skin. It wasn't really broken and he understood Sherlock's need but he didn't like being dragged away from a perfectly good drink without any explanation. "Next time, give me a little warning, will you?" he huffed. "For now I'll overlook it so we can get you home and taken care of."

 

“No.”

“No? Sherlock, you’ve got – ”

 

“I won’t make it.”

 

Before John could say a thing more, he was suddenly shoved roughly into the dark alley beside Lestrade’s house. Sherlock could hear the way John’s heart was thudding in his chest, and it made him want to go weak in the knees. He was upon John in the next heartbeat, pressing his form against the shorter man’s, chest to thigh, and he rocked against him.

 

“I may even give you a taste too.” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble.

 

Every vampire knew that to turn your mate, you had to drink them almost dry and then let them in turn drink from you. Sherlock broke one of the fundamental rules of vampirehood – don’t let your human drink from you if you aren’t turning them. Technically it wasn’t an enforced rule, it was simply highly regarded as a bad thing. Sherlock saw no negative aspect, personally. Drinking vampire blood gave a human sharper senses and increased strength and speed. Nowhere as near keen as a vampire, but certainly more impressive than a regular human.

 

The only real downside was that it became like a powerful drug to the afflicted human. The more blood given, the more the human would become addicted, and the more often they would need to feed from their vampire. It would become an insatiable need, and if indulged often enough, it would become an even stronger need than a vampire’s need for human blood.

 

Sherlock was sure not to spoil John with a treat of his blood very often at all. John had only ever fed from him four times over the course of the past two years. But he knew that John always got excited whenever the situation arose that he would be allowed to feed in return.

 

"I think you owe it to me after being so rough." John replied, heart thundering in his chest at just the thought. He loved Sherlock's blood. It didn't taste very good but the way he felt after more than made up for it. It was comparable to flying, as cliche as that was. After a drink he felt unstoppable. It was like nothing could touch him. That feeling coupled with the high from Sherlock's venom was better than any drug he could possibly imagine and when he was like that he never wanted to come down.

 

Sherlock didn’t ever waste time like Mycroft did – Sherlock didn’t play with his food. He shoved John a little harder against the wall, rolled a little deeper, and bit. He made an instantaneous noise of gratification and desire as John’s blood filled his mouth, and he drank.

 

His favorite part of feeding was John’s body. The way it would rock against his with a hunger that couldn’t be sated, the way he would give a full-bodied tremble every time Sherlock sucked, and how he would subconsciously swallow in time every time Sherlock did.

 

He loved the way John never completely closed his eyes, and how he would moan desperately every time Sherlock rocked his hips forward. John was so unashamed during feeding, and he would scratch at Sherlock’s shoulders and roll his hips and in general act like a desperate porn star.

 

"Bloody hell, Sherlock." John moaned. Sherlock's teeth sinking into him always flipped a switch in his head. The mild, every day doctor was gone and in his place was left this begging, wanton, needy man whose whole body tingled with a desperate need for more. Sherlock's bite sent daggers of white hot pleasure coursing through him, stronger than a bolt of lightning, and he gasped and trembled beneath the force of it.  
  
He rocked his hips forward, his brain shorting out and then refocusing in sporadic intervals, allowing him to register Sherlock's hardness pressing against his own and the wall behind him before he slipped under again.

 

Sherlock pulled away for a moment, just long enough to sink his fangs into his own wrist. His blood tasted foul in his own mouth, but he knew John was itching for it. He raised his wrist to the human’s mouth and sank his own fangs into a different part of John’s neck.

 

John's eyes flew open and he latched onto Sherlock's wrist. His lips closed around the wound and he drank deep, savoring the almost acidic quality of vampire blood before it slid down his throat. He could feel it inside him, hotter than any human blood could ever be. It burned inside him but it was a good burn. He could feel it spreading through his body, infusing his bones and muscles with dampened vampire power.

 

Sherlock made a loud noise of pleasure. There really wasn’t anything quite like being bitten and drank from. Most vampires avoided the process entirely because they thought it to be demeaning. After all, it was a vampire’s job to do the drinking, not to be drank from. To allow a human to share that privilege was tantamount to treating one as an equal.

 

Sherlock had always seen John as an equal. John shared his blood every month, gave away pieces of himself for Sherlock to consume, it was the least he could do to return the favor.

Not to mention, being bitten and drank from was so pleasurable it was dizzying. It felt like his wrist was on fire, and wires of hot pleasure were snaking up his body from the point where John drank.

 

He wanted to moan John’s name, but he didn’t dare break the circuit between their mouths and one another’s veins.

 

John broke away for a moment, gasping for air. His lips were painted dark red with Sherlock's blood. His heart was thundering and even though he was starting to get a little light headed he had never felt so powerful.

 

The separation was like lightning, and Sherlock’s body jerked against John’s as he too broke away from his neck. He laid his head on the doctor’s shoulder, panting and moaning and shivering. John had a tight grip on his bleeding wrist, and his cock was pulsing so violently Sherlock could feel it through their trousers.

 

“John,” he moaned, kissing at the doctor’s bloodied throat as he jerked his trousers open with his free hand. His fingers were cold as they wrapped around John’s searing flesh, and he began to jerk rapidly.

 

"Oh _fuck_." John groaned loudly, throwing his head back. Lights exploded behind his eyes and he jerked his hips forward, driving himself into Sherlock's hand. The cold of his lover's hand was a perfect contrast to the heat curling in his belly and rolling through his veins. "Oh shit, _Sherlock."_

“Yes, John, say my name,” Sherlock groaned into his lover’s neck, sucking gently at the wounds. He lapped up trickles of blood and ground himself against John’s hip, driving nearer to a powerful climax with every roll of his pelvis.

 

"Sherlock. Dammit, Sherlock, more!" John groaned, frantically thrusting into the circle of the man's fingers. Sherlock's hand tightened around his sensitive cock, pulling a strangled moan of pleasure and pain from the doctor. He was so close, so very, very close. He was clinging to Sherlock for dear life, afraid he would fly into pieces at any second if he let go.

 

Sherlock suddenly smelled something. Through John’s pleasure and the heat of his blood and the salt of his precome and the high of his pheromones, he smelled something.

 

Head snapping up and eyes flashing, he looked straight at the shocked face of Anderson through the darkness of the alley. He knew he was too far away to see the dark blood stains through the shadows, but he could hear John moaning his name desperately, and he certainly could see Sherlock’s hand moving quickly.

 

Anderson had been on his way out of Lestrade’s apartment, unable to handle the tension of being in the same room as a man he just heard screaming in pleasure, when he fell witness to what sounded like a man being murdered. He swore he’d heard some kind of slurping or heavy swallowing, so he investigated, and now he’s terribly sorry that he did.

 

John hadn’t noticed him. Sherlock hadn’t slowed his hand even an instant, but he also didn’t break eye contact with Anderson. His eyes reflected the moonlight in an inhuman sort of way, but he knew Anderson would attribute it to trauma later. For now, he just smirked.

 

“Keep saying my name, John, it’s so good,” he purred, narrowing his eyes at Anderson.

 

"God, Sherlock," John panted, all too happy to comply. He loved how Sherlock's name rolled off his tongue and how every time he said it he could feel Sherlock's cock pulse against his thigh. "Sherlock, pl-fuck, please. God Sherlock I'm almost there. Just a little more, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock broke eye contact with Anderson in order to dip his head in and bite. He didn’t even need to suck; one bite was all it took to have John screaming his way over the edge. Sherlock’s orgasm was simultaneous but much gentler, and he stiffened against John’s body, moaning into his throat as his body rocked with climax.

 

“John,” he moaned when he detached his mouth, still moving his hand slowly, milking the very last drops of semen onto the pavement.

 

John slumped against him, breathing in slow, shuddering pants. He was shivering, occasionally twitching as the after shocks worked their way out of his system. He managed to pull back enough to find Sherlock's lips and kiss him, long and deep, ignoring the taste of his own blood on Sherlock's tongue.

 

There was a beat still interrupting the steadying metronome of John’s heart, and Sherlock realized that Anderson was still standing there, shocked still. With a growl, he broke the kiss and turned his head viciously.

 

“What are you doing just standing there?” he hissed, his voice coming out much deeper and more wraithlike than he meant it to.

 

"What?" John asked, turning his head just in time to see Anderson running like his life depended on it. John's eyes went wide and he buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, caught between wanting to smack him and wanting to curl up and disappear.  
  
"He was watching and you didn't think to stop?" he hissed, shaking his head in annoyance.

 

“You were close,” Sherlock smirked, kissing John’s shoulder and lapping at the wounds in his neck. “It would have been rude. I didn’t expect him to just _stand_ there and keep watching. May I have my wrist back yet?”

 

John released the detective’s wrist sheepishly, not realizing he’d been holding onto it so tightly. He was almost strong enough for it to hurt with the extra strength pulling through his veins.

 

Sherlock rubbed his palms up both the doctor’s arms and gave him a devious smile. “What do you say we use this high while it lasts and go out and have a little fun with it, hm?”

 

"Sounds like fun." John said with a grin. he let Shelrock take him by the hand and pull him out onto the street before they both took off, laughing loudly as they went.


End file.
